


What Is and What Should Never Be

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Bittersweet, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode s10e02: Reichenbach, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Samcest, Tentacle Sex, Wall Sex, and regular old Sam Winchester, angst ahoy, selfcest? is that what this is?, seriously guys it's feelsy af, technically, yes you heard me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: Demon Dean has what he thinks is a clever idea. He’s even summoned his own help. But as usual when Sam is involved—let alone when there's two of him—things don't go as planned.





	What Is and What Should Never Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another nearly-finished fic from years ago that I resurrected and now toss to the masses. It's weird and feelsy as heck. Enjoy.

By the time Sam comes to, the bunker’s entire dungeon is vibrating with the force of one badass summoning. Light is shooting out of sigils on the floor, painting them on the ceiling. Dust clouds the air. Or is that smoke?

Sam blinks, still a little woozy. His head hurts.

_Wait a second._

It hurts because—

“Mornin’, sunshine,” drawls the demon from behind and to his left, the place where his hallucination of Lucifer always lounged. It throws him off.

Because it’s Dean standing there. Dean who knocked him out.

When Dean’s forearm presses into his shoulder, Sam tries to jerk away—but his wrists are bound to the chair, one on each side, and so are his ankles. Because Dean is an asshole.

The demon leans in.

“Got a little surprise for you,” he purrs. Hell is in the rumble of his voice. He’s so close, he dominates Sam’s space. It’s not fair. Sam shouldn’t have to smell his brother, feel Dean’s heat and hear his voice all twisted like that. It’s a vile disconnect. Bad enough he never found the courage to make a move before Dean d—was _murdered_ by Metatron, and now—

Sam tries for bravado. “It isn’t even my birthday.”

In response, Dean just bites at his earlobe. Hard.

But Sam doesn’t even have time to gasp at the pain before the space Dean occupied is cold. A rough cloth is forced between his teeth and tied. Callused fingertips work along the gag, dragging at Sam’s lips.

“Can’t have you spoiling this,” Dean says. “That pretty mouth needs to stay shut.”

Sam grumbles into the cloth, something like _I’ll spoil you, motherfucker._ It’s difficult to be clever when his heart is pounding right out of his chest. His mind is whirling on empty, falling back on Dean-style comebacks. _Dean’s always been shit at comebacks,_ he thinks. A sob gets trapped in his throat.

The demon strides toward the summoning circle, pulling something from his shirt pocket. It’s hard to make out through the smoke. Sam realizes it looks like a vial, glinting the sharp dark red of blood, the same instant Dean hurls it into the sigil.

It shatters.

The light wavers a brighter white. Straining.

“With this offering,” Dean roars at it, “Blackened youth, King of the Pit! I summon you!”

The light streaming from the sigil floods red.

 _King of the Pit?_ Sam stares at Dean standing there drenched in rippling scarlet. _Wouldn’t that be Crowley? Can’t you just text him?_

Wait, the blood.

_Blackened youth._

Suddenly, Sam can’t get enough air through his nose and the gag.

_You don’t mean—_

The center of the sigil splits with a deafening crack. It struggles open wider, pieces of the floor tumbling in, a hungry mouth devouring its own dry lips.

They’re pretty far underground, sure, but there is a deep crimson glow pulsing in that fissure that shouldn’t be there at all. Thick noxious smoke billows up.

It smells of brimstone and despair.

Suddenly, a hand reaches out of the chasm, gesturing for a lift. Dean leans over and grabs it.

When he hauls a young man with floppy brown hair up next to him, Dean greets the newcomer with a deferential nod. Then turning as one to face Sam, their eyes go black.

Sam wishes he had a self-destruct sequence.

“Hey there,” says Sammy, Boy King of Hell.

Aside to Dean: “You really shouldn’t have.” As though Sam is an unexpected gift.

Maybe he is. Maybe this is like demon Christmas.

Dean studies his guest. “Huh,” he says. “Y’know, for some reason I thought your eyes’d be…”

“What, yellow?” Sammy grins. “Not my color.”

“Me neither,” Dean says. Same expression.

They’re far too relaxed with each other already, like they hadn’t just met for the first time. Like one of them hadn't just climbed up out of a nightmare hole in the floor.

Sam’s whole body has gone numb.

He stares, muted, at the copy of himself that shouldn’t exist.

 _That_ Sam—with his carefree smirk and version of Dean’s Blue Oyster Cult shirt that wasn’t clawed to shreds by a werewolf—is the result of everything they’d tried so hard to prevent. Forever twenty-two and embittered like coffee left in the pot too long, his black eyes gleam as he drinks in his older self all wrapped up for the taking.

 _What have you done?_ Sam wants to scream at Dean. His lips are trembling around the gag, his tongue a dry weight piled against the cotton. That opening in their floor—that’s _Hell._ But it’s not the Hell of their world, it’s some alternate place where his younger self beat out all the other contenders to lead its armies and then... took over.

Look at how _cocky_ he is. He's earned it, Sam supposes; if the timelines ran parallel, that Sam has been running his Hell for _seven hundred years_. Such a thing would be inconceivable if Sam hadn’t spent time down there himself. It was so fluid, like an oil spill in the dark, edging toward an open flame. Always a threat, never a promise.

With no concept of linear time, the pain became much like breathing, an involuntary constant. No sleep, no respite, so existence itself became pain. Lucifer didn’t have any other playthings, and angels never slept. Sam knew nothing but that existence for one-hundred twenty years. Barely a sixth of the time this Sam has known his Pit.

Sam wonders how long initiation took. If Azazel’s golden child was ever tortured at all.

Seeing him now, the product of all that grooming and basking in the far Southern smokehouse blend, is so much more than disconcerting. It’s one of the most disturbing things Sam has ever seen. And he’s seen so much...

Unwilling to dwell on all that any further, having no better alternative, he fades back in on the demons’ conversation.

“—long do we have?”

“Spell says twenty-four hours, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you blew the binding before then. You’re somethin’ else.”

Dean is looking at Sammy with a measure of pride that stings deep in Sam’s chest. He notices Dean is looking straight at his younger self—they’re of a height. Must be nice.

Makes it even more disconcerting when they stalk toward him in step.

 _Maybe they’re planning to kill me,_ Sam thinks a little wildly. His arms pull the bindings taut as though he could snap them if he tugged hard enough. _And eat me. That’s it, they’re going to roast me on a spit with a damn apple in my mouth._ His breaths hiss in sharp through his nose.

Dean does look hungry, a wicked appetite there on his face. It takes Sam a long moment to realize that’s not a hunger for sustenance. Demons don’t need to eat food, after all.

But Sam’s ass? Definitely on the menu.

Oh _shit._

Sam struggles even harder. Dean summoned the Boy King for a night of debauchery, a feast wherein _Sam_ is the main fucking course. Pun intended. He’s going to be put on display and plundered, he just knows it. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. If he even survives the night.

Adrenaline and fear mix in a cocktail that has every bit of him shaking. He’s breathing like a spavined horse, whimpering every time he fails to yank his wrists free—when he sees Sammy’s confident steps begin to falter.

“Dean,” the Boy King says with a frown, black eyes studying Sam.

Dean keeps moving forward. Anticipation is writ on every inch in his body. He’s terrifying like this, hot as literal Hell. Despite his fear, Sam would be able to get hard from this sight if he weren’t so focused on Sammy stopping in his tracks.

“Dean,” the visitor says more firmly, “why is his soul all ripped up? And so... badly patched, in places?” He squints at Sam. “Almost like—”

His eyes widen. The black in them washes away. Sam stares up at himself, who looks young and confused.

“Dean, what did you do?”

Dean stops. Turns, so he’s facing both of them. _“I_ didn’t do shit,” he says. “This one’s been through the wringer. So have I. That’s what fucking happens when you _hunt.”_ He sneers the word.

“Been through the—look at him!” Sammy explodes. Sam watches his body language, amused. Has he always vibrated like that when he argues? Tense as piano strings.

“He’s been stitched back together like a goddamn voodoo doll. How is he still sane?”

With a grimace, Dean strides over to the chair and smacks the back of Sam’s head forward so hard his chin strikes his chest, knocking a grunt out of him, then rips off the gag.

“Ask him yourself.”

Sam works his jaw around. All he can taste is old cloth.

“Hey,” Sammy says, stepping closer. His tone is gentle. He probably thinks Sam is so damaged he can’t understand any of this. “How do you feel?”

“Had better days,” Sam rasps. “Had worse.”

Sammy blinks. When he smiles, he looks like a normal college kid, despite the clear weight of all his years way, _way_ down under.

“You’re okay,” he says.

“In a manner of speaking.” Sam flexes his arms against the bindings as a hint.

“If I untie you—”

“Aw, come on,” Dean whines.

 _“If I untie you,”_ Sammy repeats, searching Sam’s eyes, “will you try to kill me?”

“Not if you don’t try to kill me,” Sam says. This Sammy isn’t from their world—who knows what killing him would do, what it could affect. Besides, if he isn’t interested in hurting Sam, then Sam has nothing against him. He remembers those days. The power, the temptation. He remembers how hard it was to resist. He doesn’t blame this version of him for giving in and rising to the top like a boss.

Part of him might even be a little jealous.

And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t basking in the way Dean’s eyes smolder with untapped fury when Sammy starts untying him. As far as abilities go, the Boy King far outranks a Knight of Hell, Mark or no Mark. And Dean doesn’t have the Blade anymore. He’s as good as neutered.

Sam bets it just sticks in Dean’s craw. His brother hates feeling helpless on the best of days; as a demon, his fuse is so short it’s barely even there. Sam knows it’s only the unsung threat of Sammy’s raw power keeping Dean standing there cooling his heels instead of surging forward to own them both. He’s not the only one of them who remembers what he could do to uppity demons.

Sammy’s deft fingers make short work of the knots. Wincing, Sam rubs at his raw forearms. He’s trying not to feel weird about the way he’s being regarded. Almost like he’s a peculiar specimen being studied.

Though he’s not sure whether it’s better or worse than being eyed like a main course, he supposes he probably is kinda fascinating from that outside perspective. Since time passes differently down there and all, and Sammy’s body has been preserved as it was when he assumed his title, it’s probably odd to see the way he might have aged. Mortality is a hell of a drug. Not to mention the whole soul thing, which Sam is sure looks just as bad as it felt when it happened.

The Boy King kneels, one hand on Sam’s calf as the other begins to pick at one of the ankle knots.

“You wanna tell me how it happened?” he asks as he works.

Dean makes a disgruntled noise. He’s over to the side, pouring some kind of drink. Sam thinks about all the times he got torn apart, soul and skin, and kind of wants one too. Not for the first time, he thinks about writing a memoir. It’d probably sell like hotcakes in the horror fiction section.

“Not really,” he says.

“Ha! I don’t blame you,” Sammy says. “If it’s anything like I’ve seen...” He whistles.

Sam shares a rue smile with his counterpart and wonders, not for the last time, where his life went wrong.

 _At birth,_ his brain suggests. _No, wait! Before then. It all began with Heaven and Hell. Don’t forget: they’re the ones to blame._

But no matter how many times he tells himself, Sam can’t believe it.

That makes him laugh out loud.

Sammy’s quizzical expression is a mirror to the past, and that just makes him laugh harder.

“What?”

By now Sam is shaking. “Talking—to myself—” he sputters.

Kneeling on the floor at his feet, the Boy King smiles. “You’ve gone completely mad.”

“So they say,” Sam giggles, then sighs. “But you want to know a secret?”

Sammy’s eyes are getting darker, but he’s not exuding any power. It’s just his pupils dilating as he looks up at Sam.

Together they murmur, “All the best people are.”

It takes Sam aback when his younger self stands and barks at Dean, “You’re gonna sit this one out.” He then completely ignores Dean’s slack-jawed expression in favor of sitting on Sam’s lap, sliding his—pert, toned—ass backward until he’s snug. Sam smells Hell and his old shampoo, feels a warm body where there’s usually none. It’s making him hard.

“First dance is all me,” Sammy says, kicking his legs up over the arm of the chair, slinging his arm over Sam’s shoulders. Lounging, like Sam is a throne.

He turns his face to Sam’s. “May I?”

Stunned by this turn of events and himself in his lap, Sam can only blink. It’s weird having his own face this close. He can see all those moles he hates, and his stupid crooked teeth, and the way his nose does that _thing_. But he’s also far enough removed from this version to appreciate that with eternal youth and the confidence Hell has provided, Sammy the Boy King is hot.

Even hotter when Sam notices how wide and dark his eyes are. Full of secrets they might share only with one another.

_Is it only natural to find your own intelligence attractive? Or just conceited?_

_Does it matter?_

Sammy boops him on the nose with a fingertip. “Sure you won’t mind?” The finger finds its way beneath his chin, drawing him closer.

 _It’d be just like masturbating anyway,_ Sam tells himself. _He’s in his twenties, and he’s you. Perfectly legal._

 _Not the issue,_ he tells himself. _Missed it by a landslide._

 _Then what_ is _the issue?_

 _“_ Are. You. Sure,” Sammy says, micrometers from Sam’s lips.

Sam kisses him.

The familiarity in it is all at once comforting and weird as all get out. He _knows_ this—the sharp inhale against his skin, the way Sammy clutches him tighter as their mouths slot together in sync. He knows this, he _does_ this, and that makes it dissociative but somehow so much better. Every time Sammy moves atop him, warmth and firm flesh work at his cock through two thin layers of denim and what Sam suspects is nothing else. He’s not wearing underwear, either.

And when Sammy’s tongue darts at his lips, when Sam allows him entrance, the dirty kiss doesn’t taste like Hell. No sulfur, no ruin. Just hot and wet, so hot Sam moans into it. He’s got Sammy by the hip, running his other hand over every inch he can reach, massaging until Sammy arches his back and moans in reply. They sound identical. One is just a little deeper in pitch.

“You’re lucky this is gettin’ me there,” Dean remarks, “or I’d knife you both.”

Sam isn’t so sure Dean wouldn’t. He whimpers.

Sammy chuckles into his mouth.

And then breaks the kiss, drawing back on a spider-silk line of saliva. His eyes have flooded black again.

“Sam,” he breathes, grinding down on Sam’s lap. “I want you inside me.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean groans. “Fuckin’ do that.”

They both ignore him.

“Only if you want to,” the Boy King says. He’s serious. Apparently, despite all that time in Hell, he’d retained their respect for consent and mutual pleasure. Sam never knew he could appreciate that so much.

“You have no idea,” he says.

Sammy smirks. He turns his face and nuzzles Sam’s. “I kinda do,” he says in Sam’s ear, his voice reduced to the husk of a memory made real. “When Dean invited me here, he told me you’d love it.” He pulls back. “Now it’s obvious he was being a raging douche—”

“Fuck off,” Dean growls. “It’s—” He cuts off with a strangled sound.

“—but I’m glad he was right after all.”

Sam peers around his grinning younger self to see Dean pinned up against the far wall, struggling and kicking, his face turning red. Sammy doesn’t have a hand out. He didn’t even move.

Such _power._

“Don’t kill him,” Sam says, because he has to.

Sammy makes a dismissive noise. “Won’t. Not like this. He’s a demon, you know—if the decline in his intelligence didn't clue you in.”

Dean’s trying to say something, but it just sounds like garbled noise caught in his throat.

“Not to mention insubordination. He knows I’d own him, and it pisses him off.” Sam winces, but Sammy just scoffs. “Pathetic.”

Dean squeals with rage.

“You don’t have what it takes to shine my boots,” Sammy calls over his shoulder in derision. “If you were a Knight in _my_ Hell, I’d have you flogged for a few months til you knew who your fucking King is.”

“Not—" Dean manages somehow, "my—k—”

“If you finish that sentence, I _will_ kill you.”

Sam knows Sammy is serious. He also knows that he couldn’t handle losing Dean again, even this black-eyed dick of a Dean. There’s still a chance he can save him.

But to do that, he needs him in one piece.

“Hey,” he says. While his voice comes out steady, the tone is a little high. “Thought you wanted to get fucked.”

Sammy grins at him, eyes still black. “I do. But we might have to teach that one a lesson first.”

“Violence doesn’t get through to him anymore,” Sam says, resigned, hating it. “He’s not beyond help, but corporal punishment—”

“Just reminds him of Dad, so it pisses him off even more. Yeah, yeah.” Sammy toys with the buttons on Sam’s shirt. “I remember.”

 _What happened to your Dean?_ Sam wants to ask, but he thinks he might know the answer. Or at least a few options. None of them good.

“Hey,” he says again, trying for teasing, aiming to distract from memories. He knows how bad it can get.

“Wanna see my room?”

Sammy’s eyes revert to hazel. “You have your own room?”

As they exit what turns out to be one of the third floor storage areas, Sam notices Sammy isn’t letting Dean down from the wall. Even if the demon is breathing normally now, he’s still unable to speak. His eyes following the two of them are murderous.

“Are you just going to leave him there?”

“For now.” Sammy lets Sam lead through the maze of corridors. He’s got his hands in his pockets. “It’s easy to keep him pinned. And I dunno if I wanna be interrupted.”

Sam agrees. Especially if Dean might interrupt with a knife. He does feel a little bit bad that his brother won’t get to see this…

But only a little.

Once they get to Sam’s room, Sammy bursts in ahead of Sam flicking on the light and insists on looking at everything. Sam is glad he finally started personalizing the place, though next to Dean’s weapons collection his own walls still look drab. He still doesn’t have any art, or anything. Just his books. A nostalgic trinket or two. Even though they’ve been there awhile, he still hasn’t gotten used to the permanence.

“Don’t you have your own room?” he has to ask as Sammy checks out the smart TV.

“I do, yeah,” Sammy says. He’s flipping through channels. “But I don’t so much sleep anymore. And I never—” He stops abruptly.

Sam’s chest constricts. _Never got to live somewhere normal with Dean._ As though the bunker were normal, at all.

_Never got to have this._

“What _is_ this place?” Sammy asks, thumbing the power button and tossing the remote aside. He’s peering around at the walls. “It reeks.”

 _It—oh, the wards._ The summoning probably circumvented them. Go figure.

They’ve done so many things that would boggle a Man of Letters’ mind.

“It’s part of our history,” Sam says. Too simple, but true.

“Our…” A small, bitter laugh. “Oh, Sam.” He turns back around, sidling closer. “It’s so weird to hear you talk like that. Like I know what you know. Like…” His fingers trip up Sam’s stomach to his chest, toying with his collar. “Like I am what you are.”

Sam swallows.

“Kiss me,” the Boy King says, face tilted up, fox eyes dark.

Unable to think of a single reason not to, Sam does as he’s bidden.

It devolves into making out almost instantly. They eat at one another, learning again for the first time the maps of nearly identical mouths. Sam is tasting his own teeth and yet Sammy moves in ways Sam doesn’t anticipate. He’s anxious, insistent, hands tugging at Sam’s hair and grabbing him tighter, closer to Sammy’s body.

Their hips brush, dig into a rhythm, dragging newfound pleasure out of a pair of familiar hand-me-down jeans. Sam reaches around, finds Sammy’s ass, and grabs a double handful. Hauls him even closer.

Sammy moans into the kiss. His arms tighten around Sam as they move, stumble, fall together on to Sam’s bed. They bounce lightly. Sammy breaks the kiss.

“How long has it been?” is not a question Sam is expecting.

“Uh.”

“I’m not celibate, either.”

“Um.”

The Boy King looks at him askance. “It hasn’t been since Jess, has it?”

That’s... wow. It's been nine years. Would any version of him have done that?

“No, it hasn’t. I—” _got pushed by Dean to move on, which in turn..._ “Over time, I managed to heal.”

“She would have liked this, I think.” Sammy’s smile is a little fond, a little sad. He runs feather-light fingertips along Sam’s skin, over every place he can touch. “She’d think it was hot.”

Sam recognizes that this version of him hasn’t healed. Not really. He hasn’t let her go. In all the eons he’s been downstairs, he’s been fossilized as he was in ‘07: not nearly done grieving.

So Sam catches those fingers on the strip of skin between his hiked-up shirt and waistband, and guides them to his belt buckle.

“I think so, too.”

Sammy chuckles. “We’re hotter than home.”

“Can—” _you prep yourself with a thought, like angels can? I’m asking for a friend._ It was TMI when Castiel told him. Now Sam is curious.

But Sammy misunderstands that first syllable and tears his fingers away. “You still think of Kansas as home?” he accuses.

Sam gapes. “Uh.”

“Kansas was never home to us! _Never!”_ The rage comes out of nowhere. It makes sense, in some objective way, but to Sam it’s still overblown. “Dean had four years there, and what did we have? A legacy of blood and fire.” Sammy scoffs, an edge of tears to it. His eyes swim black. “That fucker had Mom.”

“Sam—”

“You know what?” Sammy sneers. “I feel sorry for you. I really do. You’re all torn to pieces and you’re still living with the one who tore you up.”

“Dean didn’t do this,” Sam said, stung.

“I find that hard to believe.” A ripple of a frown, then a shock of laughter. “That little shit—he’s trying to break free and come offer his pointed opinion.” Drawing a deep breath, he yells at the door, “I could probably hold you there from the other side!”

Indistinct roaring echoes up from downstairs. Sammy chuckles.

But when he turns back to Sam, his expression is alien. Cold.

“Tell me what Dean didn’t do.”

“I made my own choices,” Sam says. He’s starting to get angry, but he doesn’t want to risk being attacked by this juiced-up version of himself. “Dean tried to stop me. He said—” _Now listen here, you bloodsucking freak!_ “—we could work it out, whatever happened, and we did.”

The memory of falling, occupied, into the Cage must show on his face because for a bare instant Sammy looks vulnerable. Stricken. Like he can see it all.

“When I was rescued, part of me got left behind. Getting that part back and putting me back together took help from all corners. Too many quilters spoil the cloth,” Sam says with a laugh and a gesture at his chest. “As it were.”

“But all these places where the stitches festered...”

“Not much time to hole up and heal on the run.” He glances down at himself. “To be honest, I got used to it.”

 _“Sam,”_ the Boy King says, condescension and wonder and reproach and pride all in one syllable.

“You know the swing of the job.” Sam shrugs. “Hunt monster after monster long enough, whatever state of normality you can achieve feels as normal as it needs to.”

“And then Dean went and demonized himself. Some vote for normal.”

“He’s always been a ‘shoot first’ kinda guy, you know that.”

Sammy grimaces. “Seems like it got worse.”

“Sure it did.” _Had to._ “The monsters got worse.” _And we got sloppy._

 _“_ And you just—”

“What? Let him?” Sam snorts. “Look, you haven’t been here. Trust me. It was either ‘let him’ or keep him prisoner.” _If I even could. “_ And I owe him too much to try something like that.”

_And after he escaped, he wouldn’t have come back._

_“_ Seems to me the balance is already even on that score,” Sammy counters. “Seems to me _you’re_ far more damaged—”

“You couldn’t see his soul, could you.” It’s not a question. And it’s answered only by a pause, and the slightest quirk of the Boy King’s lips.

“I know I’ll be able to save him somehow,” Sam says, lying back on the bed. He stares up at the blank ceiling.

“Sure.”

“He’s not beyond redemption. He’s not.” Sam isn’t shocked to find a lump forming in his throat, nor stinging in his eyes. “There’s gotta be a way.”

A soft thump. Sammy slides a hand across Sam’s chest and snuggles in to the crook of his arm and neck. “And if anybody can find it,” he murmurs, “it’s you.”

“Why are you being so damn nice?” Sam is blinded by a flood of salt. “Why don’t you just kill us both and take over this world?”

 _How?_ he doesn’t ask. _How are you still so nice after so long?_ He supposes it should be gratifying, that he has—had?—that capacity. Like proves him wrong after all the post-soulless self-loathing… but instead, it’s just baffling. And somehow makes everything worse.

If this version of him weren’t lying here beside him, Sam would never have conceived such a thing was possible.

“Believe it or not, I have more important things to do than take over the world you denied yourself.” Sammy props up on an elbow, his other hand still warm and real on Sam’s chest. It’s a trip. “Hell doesn’t run on its own. I only left Lilith in charge because she knows I’ll kill her if she tries to boot me.”

“You left _Lilith_ in charge?”

“Yeah.” He looks a little embarrassed. “We, uh. We’ve kinda got a thing.”

Sam whistles.

“You killed her, didn’t you?” At Sam’s hesitation he adds, “It’s okay. I like her as well as a man can like a withered old bat-thing. I would’ve killed her too, if I had to.”

“I didn’t have to,” Sam grouses. “I got set up.”

He blinks. It’s the first time he hasn’t blamed himself.

“There, see? Progress.”

Startled hazel meets knowing hazel. “Can you read my—”

“Please.” The Boy King snorts at him. “Parlour tricks. Haven't been this whole time, but figured... yeah. Enough of the frustrating guesswork." He grins, unapologetic.

"I couldn't do that."

Sam means when he had his own power set, but part of him also balks at the idea entirely. Some things are better left to thoughts alone—and all anyone has, really, is the vault of their private mind. If that gets breached... Sam doesn't feel like he has, ever had, that right.

Sammy shrugged. "Once I accepted my— _our_ birthright, a lot of shit got a _lot_ easier. Like this.”

Again, he doesn’t even move. Sam just finds himself suddenly readjusting to his wall now being a floor he’s splayed across. Sammy’s mental touch is deft. It feels like he’s being cradled by firm, guiding hands coated in down fluff.

Any further examination halts with the rest of his thoughts when Sammy steps gracefully through the air, axis tilting, to straddle him there on the wall. There’s no time to be embarrassed about anything he was thinking when he’s at a ninety-degree angle getting frotted by himself.

“I can make you think we’re fucking in Rome, in St. Peter’s Basilica,” Sammy says. So casual. So dismissive of his prowess. “I could make you think five of me are working you over and never even touch you with my own hands.

 _“_ I can give you a whole pleasure palace, Sam. It’d stay after I left, too.”

He keeps talking, but that bit jolts Sam back to cold reality. He’s leaving. Probably pretty soon. And all Sam has done is angst and kiss him. Talk about wasting an opportunity.

Suspending disbelief, Sam rolls them on the wall and pins the Boy King beneath his weight. His hips roll heavy onto Sammy’s. Again, and again. Waves of intent. He’s got no shame rutting like a teenager, not now. Not with Sammy’s cock trying to pitch one hell of a tent beneath his weight.

“Where were we?” he rumbles, pitching his voice just to see those familiar, foreign eyes roll back.

“Ah—” Sammy tosses his head. Sam knows how that feels, why it happens, and it’s gratifying to know he’s got what it takes. Confidence renewed, he leans in closer.

“Because I seem to recall somebody wanted to get fucked,” he teases in his lowest register.

“Yes,” Sammy hisses. He lunges and flips them again. Something knocks against Sam’s boot. The corner of his dresser. He could stand if he wanted to.

He spreads his legs instead.

“What I was gonna ask earlier—” Sam recalls.

“Yeah, I can.”

They’re naked in the next instant. It’s cold for all of that instant until Sam feels a nudge of power, like an invisible tendril feeling around his entrance. There’s no time for his erection to flag—he’s prickling hot all over. The tip of that thing feels _thick._

“See?”

Sam flushes. “Uh—wow.”

The pressure retreats.

“Sorry.” Sammy looks embarrassed. “It’s not. Well. It’s not really necessary. I can just—” He starts to contort, reaching around himself with one hand. “And I mean, if you don’t—”

“Hey.” Sam waits until he has the Boy King’s gaze. Sammy’s cheeks are red. Sam smiles at him. “I’d be into that, you know.”

“Well, I know _I_ am, I didn’t know if _you—”_

“Sam. Just show me?”

The tendril is back, nudging more forcefully, working its way inside with a slickness and warmth that spreads as the muscle gives. From the look on the Boy King’s face, he’s feeling the same thing at this exact moment. Sam imagines he can feel both ends, being filled as well as entering Sammy’s body. So tight, so hot. He struggles to relax. He wants to relax; as weird as this might be, he wants to feel it. All of it.

“Okay,” Sammy breathes, trembling. “Okay.”

He reclaims Sam’s lips as his power slips inside.

Sam’s eyes roll back, his mouth falling slack against Sammy’s, his younger self just mouthing at him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be filled by something more alive than his own inanimate dildo. Sure, it’s propelled by the mind of a clone of himself and he’s _on the wall,_ but none of that matters. It feels amazing. Better than amazing.

He spreads his legs as wide as he can to accommodate the tendril pulling out slow. It shoves back in even deeper.

“That’s it,” Sammy says, his voice gone low and rough. His cock is an iron rod in the groove of Sam’s thigh, hot as a fever, that unique erectile juxtaposition of soft skin over metal. His hips are working between the rut and the other tendril Sam knows is fucking him, too. Sam briefly wonders if this is how Sammy gets his kicks when he needs release. If it were him, be damn sure he’d be doing this every chance he got.

Oh, god... Out and back in. Out, in. The tendril of power fucks him soundly, picking up speed. Thrust after thrust, it takes him apart.

And then it begins to swell wider.

Sam clutches at the wall, fingertips scrabbling, failing to catch. “Oh,” He’s panting, gasping, _“oh_ — _”_

“Yeah,” Sammy breathes. “You’re so— _we._ We’re so fucking tight.”

“You don’t do this often?”

“Never have the time,” the Boy King gasps. His face contorts in a spreading sunrise of pleasure. The tendril must have found his prostate.

In the next instant, the other one finds Sam’s.

It’s been a long while since he’s had something even close to this. He can’t speak. Flashes of heat sizzle sluggishly through his body, down his limbs. Every time Sammy moves, the power within them moves, too. It feels better than Sam ever would have imagined. And that might be the result of some kind of mojo, but he just can’t find it in himself to care.

Sammy probably knows that.

“God,” he moans.

“Nah, just me.” Even panting, strung out, he’s a cheeky bastard. “Open up.”

Another tendril of power is nudging at his lips. It’s visible, an inky black. Sammy is watching him with eyes swirling that same shade. Obediently, Sam parts his lips, relaxes his throat, and takes the tendril in.

The feeling of fullness at both ends takes him there. Oh, does it. His entire body buzzes with sensation. His cock blurts, precome running down his leg until yet another unseen force collects it, bringing it to Sammy’s lips.

Sam groans as he sucks at the tendril, fucking back down on the one inside him, watching Sammy lick up his precome like it’s melting ice cream. The flick of that tongue, he can almost _taste—_

Pressure builds.

Around his mouthful, Sam whines.

Pleasure, climbing to a peak, races through his veins toward his cock. He could come from this alone. His eyelids flutter closed. He can feel it, heat at every end of him. In the soles of his feet. His scalp. He wants to come, he’s gonna—

At the brink of it all, everything stops moving.

His eyes fly open. He groans around his mouthful, denied, aching.

Sammy hums. “Not until I’ve been on your cock, Sam,” he says in reproach.

Sam thrashes, pinned at both ends. The power filling his mouth is an effective gag.

A little drool escapes, but Sammy collects it and flings it away. “You’re so hot like this,” he murmurs. “Stuffed full of me. If I didn’t need you so bad, I might... I... Oh, _shit.”_

In reply Sam is rubbing his tongue all over the tendril in his mouth. It’s smooth, like latex.

Sammy shudders against him. “Sam...”

_You can feel that?_

The Boy King burrows into the crook of his neck. “Yes,” he whispers, hips working. He nips at Sam’s skin. “Hnn _yes_.”

 _Well, if that’s the case—_ Sam works his mouth around it, moves and deep throats the tendril. He gags, but only a little. This he does with a toy just as often as he fucks himself. He likes being full at both ends.

_“Sam.”_

_Yeah._

The tendril of power swells even wider, filling him more and choking him sooner. But Sam just swallows when he can despite his watering eyes, humming as he works. Sammy is flailing, grasping at him, pumping the one in Sam’s ass deeper but losing all sense of rhythm.

 _That’s it,_ Sam thinks, putting forth even more effort. _Let me see you lose it._

 _“_ Sam,” the Boy King moans, thrashing. “Sam, oh fuck, oh—ah!” His eyes fly wide, convulsing as he comes in hot spurts all up Sam’s chest.

He thrusts through his own mess, fucking with the wash of orgasm, and Sam milks him through it with his mouth on Sammy’s power. He hums, just to watch his younger self twitch, cursing him with lips gone numb.

“You… you bastard,” he pants, withdrawing both tendrils, leaving Sam pinned so he can clamber down the wall like a spider. “I’m gonna make you come _so hard—”_

“Do it,” Sam whispers.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Sammy tosses back, sounding wrecked, getting situated over Sam’s iron-hard cock with a satisfying lack of finesse.

He fits the head to his sloppy entrance and sits with a strangled cry that echoes from Sam’s throat too.

_Fuck—_

He’s hot inside, so tight even after all that, slicked up and so ready to swallow Sam whole. He sinks to the hilt instantly. A perfect fit. His head gets thrown back, his fingers white-knuckled on what would be sheets if this were happening in a bed. If it had retained any semblance of normalcy.

Sam pants. Inside his doppelganger, his cock flexes against the tight channel. Sammy mewls, squirming, his body clutching at the intrusion. Each ripple of muscle is almost too much.

 _He’s_ too much, this whole thing is too much. Overwhelming. Insane.

Amazing.

_Sammy—_

“It’s Sam,” he whispers, rocking forward.

Sam’s hands find his hips. “That’s my name,” he growls, holding Sammy firmly where he is, planting his feet on the wall and fucking up into him hard.

He jolts a cry from his lungs, thready and needy, still, and he doesn’t have to look to know Sammy’s already getting hard again. Sam is on the edge of the precipice, staring down a slope he’s about to bomb his entire existence right down, gripping Sammy’s hips so tight he’d probably bruise a mundane human.

Maybe Sammy will let the marks form. Maybe he’ll press them for days afterward, to feel Sam again once Sam is—once he—

Oh, but Sam can’t care about that, can’t let himself want this perversion to stay and fuck him until he’s passing out every night. They have lives to live. To save, at least on this end.

Like—

“Holy shit, look at you,” says Dean from the door, sounding less like a demon and more awed than Sam’s ever heard him.

Oh yeah, they’re still on the wall.

Sam would seek his brother’s eyes, see the look on his face, really he would, but Sammy just growls, “None of your business,” and doubles down on riding harder, faster. That muffled thump must be Dean’s back hitting the wall again, if his groan is any indication; there’s too much pain in it to be him getting a hand on himself.

“Thought you wanted me to watch,” he says, strained. “Thought that’s why you—” He cuts off. “Ahhh, but you didn’t mean to let me up, did you?”

The laugh Sammy answers with, just this side of maniacal, shuts him up. Sam does look, then, rolling his head to the side just in time to watch Dean’s clothes fly off him, torn from his frame by unseen rending claws.

“Sure I did,” the Boy King says, dark and searing as Hell itself.

Sam watches his brother’s lips and teeth get pried open by a thick patch of nothing, his legs spread, his cock rising, clearly being handled. He’s trying to struggle but either he's not trying very hard, or the pleasure just overtakes him that quickly. He’s definitely enjoying himself. His face is a study in confusion overtaken by rapture.

Even from here Sam can see Dean’s ass is being invaded by something thick and slippery. His thighs are already shiny, slick beginning to slide down the wall. Spit drips from his chin to his heaving chest. He’s just writhing now. Fragmenting into need and abandon.

Sammy hums, mock-pity. “You wanted to play, Dean. Should have specified how.”

Dean’s eyes roll back, his whole body jolted up the wall again and again. His wriggling has slowed to a sensual pace. Around his mouthful, he moans. It sounds like he’s begging for more.

Sammy moves over Sam, redoubling his pace, his whole body tugging Sam’s soul out his cock while Sam watches those tendrils of power fuck the everloving sin out of Dean. The _sounds_ coming from over there...

He soon finds his hips moving at the same pace as the tendrils, listening to the wet sloppy thrusts and punctured groans and imagining his cock in their place. Sammy and Dean and visceral heat coming in waves all meld together an overwhelming, mind-searing cocktail of stimulation. Sam can’t tear his eyes away—not until Sammy’s hand gets ahold of his jaw and forces him to turn, to meet his own black eyes again.

“Do you like it?” Sammy husks.

Sam can’t answer, but his face must say it all. Sammy shoves him back that way again, to the mind-melting sight of his brother being fucked wide open.

“Then keep watching.”

The tendrils swell, holding him open even wider—they speed their pace til it’s brutal. Dean lets out a garbled cry, fucking himself back and forth as well as he can on both ends. He’s lost in it. Letting himself get taken apart, not caring how or by whom.

This is gonna fuel Sam’s fantasies for _years._

“Watch me take him apart.”

Moaning, Sam writhes with him, pinned across the room but feeling Dean’s pleasure and sweat across his own skin. _Oh god, oh god..._

“Not God.” Humid breath, teeth on his ear. “Me. And I’m doing it for you. You turned out so fucking great, Sam, you have no idea… you survived so much, you deserve this...”

Across the room, Dean goes rigid, a groan forced hard through his nose, every intruding mass working overtime as his cock spurts stream after thick white stream of come out across Sam’s floor.

He’s beautiful, sweat-sheen and dripping, sagging in Sammy’s unseen restraints like the most debauched crucifix Sam has ever seen. The mere feet between them widen into a gulf.

He’s still coming.

His next groan is so wanton, so needy and fucked-out and unlike any noise Sam has ever heard Dean make before, that Sam’s orgasm slams into him, out of him, like a battering ram. He locks up and comes as deep as he can inside Sammy with a punched-out cry that’s not quite Dean’s name or his own.

It sounds like, _“Damn.”_

Which… yeah.

He moans, shaking out into his younger self, who just writhes happily atop him.

Sammy’s not letting up. It’s getting to be too much—

Sam lets out a high-pitched noise _—_

And Sammy just sighs out another orgasm, a spurt or two up Sam’s chest and a whole wealth of shivers from within milking the last of all Sam is out the end of his dick.

Everybody groans in unison.

Lolling his head back upright, reluctant to tear his eyes away from a spent, dangling Dean, Sam waits for Sammy to meet his gaze.

Sweet, heavy-lidded hazel holds so much for him when he does.

They both know what’s about to happen. What _has_ to happen. There’s no use protesting it, or prolonging this moment. But…

Sammy sits up on his knees just enough to let Sam’s dick slip free from the clutch of his body, and then snuggles up to Sam’s sticky chest, plastered atop him all gangly limbs and well-preserved youth. Warm, bony, and satisfied.

When he sighs, Sam's eyes well with tears, to his surprise and dissatisfaction. He wills them not to fall. It'd ruin the moment.

But he’ll never have this. Nothing like this. Not only would it be weird in all kinds of ways, it’s just not in the cards. He and Dean… the way they live… well, he wasn’t kidding when he said they made their own normal. There was no room in it for any of this.

Not even…

Yeah.

When he looks away, it’s not in Dean’s direction.

His chest heaves a choked-up sob when he feels Sammy start to lose mass. _Oh, no…not yet..._

He might never get to have this, but he thought… hoped, maybe… that he could give Sammy just a little bit more of it. If not for himself, for the him that’ll get returned to a Hell he owns but which might feel a little bit colder now.

Sam doesn’t know.

But there’s nothing he can do to stop or slow it. They blew the binding like Dean said they might, and now Sammy is fading away. Go figure it was far, far less than twenty-four hours. With everything that just happened? All that power expended? They’re lucky they got this much time.

Tacky fingers find his cheek.

“Sam,” the Boy King whispers, “look at me.”

He almost doesn’t. Almost can’t. But if he didn’t, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

Sammy’s eyes are already translucent when he meets them.

“Thanks, dude,” his doppelganger says with a laugh. Sam’s attempt at an answering chuckle gets caught in his throat, gets swallowed back down. Sammy leans in for a kiss that feels like a puff of his breath on Sam’s lips. “Good luck...”

In the next moment, he’s gone.

“You too,” Sam whispers to empty air.

A pillow couches his head, sheets rustling against his chest when he sucks in a breath. He and Dean are in the bed and dry. Some last, gracious act by someone who owed them exactly nothing.

The walls are no longer a mess; neither is his body, or Dean's. It’s dissociating and strange, but he’s more used to that than he should be. That’s funny and yet it isn’t.

Turns out he was right from the start. He did end up getting plundered, body and soul—just not in the way he feared at the time. Even so, he’s not sure he’ll ever really be rid of it… unlike it might have been, he’s not sure he wants to.

Dean is snoring. In sleep, he looks like the plain old human man he’s supposed to be. It’s so familiar, almost painful. In Sam’s arms, he’s just Sam’s brother again, warm and vibrant. Stupid, frustrating, and safe.

Missing this so violently was never part of the plan.

But when do their lives ever follow one?

So Sam lets it go a little longer before he gets up to paint a shaky-handed devil’s trap beneath the bed.


End file.
